The Brave Caballero
by Commare
Summary: YEY! I'm back in the game! here's chapter ten, although it's somewhat short, but an amazing thing happens. Want to see? Read on, then friends!
1. Default Chapter

This is an experiment, not to mention my first Max Steel fan fiction. Any help and all constructive criticism will be welcome. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, so ideas are also greatly appreciated.   
Disclaimer: Max Steel belongs Mattel, WB, and other various companies I'm unfamiliar with.  
Okay, 1...2...3 GO.  
  
  
Leonard was an old man, his life long since lived. No more relatives to claim relationship to, and no more friends to talk to. The past few years Leonard spent his days sitting next to his picture window and watching the empty, brick square that dominated the residence of the deserted apartment buildings. Alone, he sometimes watched the sun come up, and sometimes he was there to see it set. And rarely, ever so rarely, a stray traveler, or perhaps a secretive pair of lovers, would venture into the square. For Leonard, such a trivial happening was quite the event. When alone in the abandoned piazza, the strangers were never self-conscious, unafraid to sit at a bench, discard their shoes to rub sore feet or sift through a grocery bag to make a sandwich, or even, if accompanied by someone of their affection, lock themselves in passionate carnal embrace.  
Sometimes the courtyard was quiet, still and serene, giving Leonard a chance to smooth out his mantra. This particular day had been a quiet one. Uneventful. And now Leonard sat, a sweating glass of ice-cold lemonade in one, leathery brown hand. The sun was close to setting, and there was a warm yellow glow across the brick buildings. Perhaps Leonard would go to bed tonight, his mind empty and free of thought, just like the past twenty-four hours. He turned to sip at his drink, then looked back down through the window, five floors below to the square, and he almost startled when he saw the figure of a young man standing where there had been no one before. It was a dark-headed lad, sporting wire-rimmed glasses and, from what Leonard could see from his distance, a complete look of bafflement. The spectacled youth looked about, brow furrowing, and then he began to search the pockets of his light, hooded jacket. Obviously not finding what he was looking for, he tried his kaki pants and then the breast pocket of his shirt. Finally, the fellow shook his head and dropped his hands to his sides in exasperation. Distantly, Leonard heard a soft string of Spanish words followed by a heavy sigh.  
Forgot the directions, lad, thought the old man, and then he sat up in his chair with widened eyes as the courtyard suddenly filled with a group of men in black uniforms. All of them looked like brutes. There was, perhaps, ten of them or so, and they formed a spread-out circle around the young man who whipped his head about in alarm. One of the black-clad men, the leader Leonard could tell simply by his demeanor, stepped forward.  
"Dr. Martinez, I presume." He said, rather loudly. The younger man, presumably Martinez, didn't respond at first, frozen in place and eyeing the larger man warily. When he finally acknowledged the leader, the fellow had raised his eyebrows as if to imply he was still waiting for an answer.  
"What do you want? Where's my family?"  
The thug rolled his eyes irritably. "I don't know... wherever you left them last. I just needed an excuse to lure you here - Listen, Martinez, we've got some business to discuss. First, however, I'd like for you to remove your communicator wrist watch, please."  
There was a tense moment of silence as cretin and caballero stared each other down. Then, Big Bad and Ugly pulled a gun. Leonard was frozen in his chair, watching the scene play out with horrid fascination. "Don't make me ask twice, boy."  
Martinez took a deep breath, and then he slowly pulled his watch off, placing it into the waiting outstretched hand. "Thank you." The menace put the watch in his pocket, then offered his hand back out. "Now, if you please... the glasses."  
The younger man took a step back, forehead pinched in confusion. "What?"  
"Just hand them over."  
Another pregnant pause, and then the dark-haired gent hesitantly reached up his hands and removed his glasses that were soon placed with the watch. The behemoth then backed away. "All right, boys... sedate him, please." And with that, the rest of the beasts closed in on their prey.  
Leonard, completely unnoticed by the scene below, was finally scared into shooting out of his chair and running to his phone to call the police.  



	2. ch2

  
"B - Berto. Roberto. Berto - " Max stuttered loudly. He couldn't seem to get a word in edgewise; the woman on the other end was talking rapidly in Spanish, and she had a big voice.  
  
"May I please - " He paused when the woman suddenly stopped her ramblings and was replaced by the soft sound of movements.  
  
"Hello?" Suddenly came a younger, gentle voice. This sounded much more like a family Berto could be related to.  
  
"Hi. I'm looking for Berto."  
  
"You've reached his home residence. Berto is staying in Del Oro Bay right now. He works at N-Tek."  
  
"Yes, this IS N-Tek. I was under the conception that he was called home."  
  
"Under the misconception, I'm afraid."  
  
"Is this one of his sisters?"  
  
"Si. This is Isabelle."  
  
"Hi, Isabelle. This is Max -"  
  
"Ah yes. We have heard of you."  
  
"I've heard of you too. Listen, Berto told me, a few days ago, that he received a message from home and had to meet some one, and no one has seen him since. We thought that maybe he went home."  
  
"One moment... " There was a string of conversation in the background between Isabelle and possibly two or three other women. The discussion was quiet with short pauses between each of them. Their words sounded confused. Finally, Berto's sister came back to the receiver, speaking a bit hesitantly at first. "Uhm... no one here has sent any message to Berto... are you sure he said it was his family?"  
  
"Yeah. He said one of his sisters."  
  
"Maybe he meant someone else's sister?"  
  
Max was still for a moment. Something was seriously up. "Yeah, come to think of it, you're probably right. He must be with a friend."  
  
"Uhm... Senior Max, how long has he been gone?" Isabelle was starting to sound just a bit irritated, her voice laced with worry.  
  
"Three days now - "  
  
"Shouldn't you be worried?"  
  
Max felt a little embarrassed. "Yes, of course, ma'am, that's why I called - " Max was abruptly cut off by another voice, possibly another sister who had snatched the phone.  
  
"Senior, where is our baby brother?" Came the sharp demand, anger making the accent thick. "If something has happened to him, you can be sure - "  
  
"Ma'am, I promise I'm going to get to the bottom of this. We'll call you just as soon as we get a hold of him. I'm sure he's fine..." Five minutes and several excuses later, a rattled Max finally hung up the phone. He never got over how protective those women all were. Though, being the baby of a large family did that, he supposed.  
  
Max bit his lip and creased his brow, deep in thought. Then he whirled about, jogging down the corridor to find Berto's quarters.  



	3. ch3

Hi Guys. Sorry my chapters have been so short. I'm seriously knit-picking my way through this story, and I'm still struggling for some kind of epithany(did I spell that right?) to come to me. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews; I've really appreciated those.  
  
  
  
  
"So, did anyone find anything?" Max followed Smith as he circled his office, pulling various files out and putting others away. The older man looked preoccupied, but paused to focus his attention on Max.  
  
"We've called every place we could think of, which wasn't very many. I've become astutely aware, lately, just how sheltered that boy is... just a lab rat. Anyway, all we've got is a piece of paper with an address, and I figured you'd want to be the one to check it out. Here..." After a moment of digging, Smith produced the small, orange post-it note and handed it to Max. "However, I want you to rest a bit first. I realize this last mission was fairly sudden, and you've literally been all over the place the past two days, chasing that rookie of a terrorist across the globe."  
  
Max looked at the piece of paper in his hand. "So it's a mission? ...Of sorts?"  
  
Smith frowned pensively. "It's been too long for me not to worry that something might have happened."  
  
Max stiffened. It was kind of a blow to actually hear it out loud. His friend was in trouble. He'd had time to reflect, of course, over the past two days. Hearing Rachel on the other end of his bio-link during his two-day fox hunt, instead of having her with him, backing him up and being the partner that was usually right there beside him... well he had felt, somewhat, disorganized. She had always been the trusty other half of a team. Berto was the one always in his ear, giving him guidence, reprimanding his lack of ethics or commending jobs well done. It was Berto... his hermano. Max set his jaw. "I'm on it," He stated as he turned to go, "and I'm going to take Rachel with me."  
  
Smith nodded as Max disappeared. "Then I'll do moniter," he said to himself.  
  
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What's the world coming to, thought Franklin as he stood, poised, with a large cold bucket cradled in one arm. A deep frown dominated the disgusted look on his face. This so called "doctor," Marinez, who now laid restrained on a bed that was conveniently stolen from some psychiatric ward someplace, could hardly be called a man; he was just a kid.  
  
Stupid, Franklin thought, shaking his head. Just stupid. Out loud, he said, "Such a shame." Then he took the bucket in hand; it was big, filled with icy cold water. "Time to wake up, Martinez." With that, he flipped the bucket over, dumping the water onto the unconscious prisoner with a splash. Martinez jolted awake with a gasp, sputtering and coughing, and then his head fell back onto the matress weakly and he moaned quietly. Maybe the boys had worked him over a little too well, probably busted a rib or two; the good el doctor had a nice shiner high on his right cheek, and blood crusted from the left side of his forehead and down his temple.  
  
"Can you hear me? Martinez?" Franklin tossed the bucket to the ground with a loud clatter. "Say something."  
  
Martinez took a moment to focus his eyes, blinking dazedly as he couldn't see clearly to begin with. His limbs shifted a bit when he realized his predicament. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble," he finally croaked in a raw, faint voice. "If you wanted to get me into bed, you could have just called and asked for a date."  
  
Franklin smirked. The doctor had spunk. "Good. You're talking. I wouldn't get too friendly, though, sweetheart." Franklin walked over to the door and rapped on it. Two large men came in, monotonous, stereotypical faces, stony and cold. They unstrapped the prisoner's hands and feet, then literally dragged him across the room to a chair as he was too roughed up to be properly mobile or coherent.  
  
"This can be really easy, Martinez," Franklin started, and pulled something shiny from his pocket. "I just want some information." It was brass, and it glinted in the dim lights as Franklin fit it over his fingers and onto his knuckles.  
  



	4. ch4

I don't know how many times I can apoligize for taking so long. I like the story... I just still am unsure as to how to go about organizing it. I basically just write a part, put it up, think what to do next, write a part, put it up...... is anyone seeing the pattern here? Also, I've had such a chronic case of writer's block that has dogged me since the first day I was able to pick up a pencil. Anyway, thanks for all the reviews, and sorry about the Berto torture. I just like how angst and pain always equals to wonderful sweet and smarmy endings. And our man, Martinez deserves a sweet and smarmy ending, no? Anyway, on to the next chapter.  
  
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"Looks deserted to me. Why would he come here?" Rachel looked around the empty lot, taking in the run down appearance of the old apartment buildings that made a circle around the red, cobblestone courtyard. On a small, dry fountain that sat in one of the corners, cracked and decaying from lack of use, there was printed, "The Square." Very original.  
  
"Maybe because it's the perfect place for a bad guy to come and kidnap him without any witnesses." Max grumbled. He was in a foul mood. God knew what had happened to his friend and why. When he found out who was behind this... Max clenched his fists and counted to ten. No need to lose his temper when he didn't even have anyone to take it out on yet. A very foul mood, indeed.  
  
"Well I suppose we should start looking for clues." Rachel sighed and chose a direction to explore. Either she was taking this very well, or she simply knew how to keep herself in check. Rachel was always the calm one, calculating and sometimes even a bit cold, but this was personal. It was some one she cared about that was at stake. But then... she always knew not to let emotions get control and take over when it concerned her job. Max was glad to have her along. It helped him keep his own behavior at a responsible level. He followed her example and scrutinized the apartment buildings around him.  
  
"Hey..." There in a window, he saw movement. As he jogged closer, craning his neck to look up, a man appeared beyond the reflection of the glass, an old man with a creased brow. Max waved at him, and the man opened his window. "Excuse me, sir. Do you think we could ask you a few questions?" By then, Rachel joined his side.  
  
Leaning out, he responded, "You're looking for that boy with the glasses, no? He spoke Spanish?"  
  
Max felt his stomach jump ten feet. "Have you seen him?"  
  
The old man's face was very serious. "Are you friends of his?"  
  
Rachel's chest puffed up. "The seriously worried sick kind."  
  
The wild-haired senior citizen nodded gravely. "Come up, then. Room 509."  
  
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"The police came by too late. They'd taken off and gone. I didn't catch any names that I could give them. I heard their leader say that young man's name, your friend, but I have terrible short term memory, and all I could tell them was it could have been Cortez or Mendoza, or something of the sorts. Of course, the police can't go on no names. I'm supposed to contact them when something comes to me." Leonard sat across from his guests. One was a muscular young man with brown, neatly cropped hair and sharp blue eyes and bore into him with concern and hope and fear. The other was a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and glinting green eyes that looked out through a stony face of an absolutely strict and schooled expression. She sat up straight, tense and astute while her comrade leaned forward with eagerness and impatience.  
  
"Martinez. Berto Martinez." Max sat on the edge of the sofa chair, curling his fingers tightly around his knees. "Did you get a look at the guys that took him?"  
  
"He wasn't in any of the mug shots I was showed. Rather friendly looking if you were to run into him in the street: clean cut and fresh faced, maybe in his thirties. He had short blonde hair... kind of tall... there's not much else I could give you folks; I'm five stories up, you know. I really want to help you out; he looked like such a nice young boy, and no one deserves abduction. But there's really no more to it."  
  
Rachel was very close to fidgeting. "Were the men wearing any uniforms, sir?"  
  
Leonard pinched his face with thought. "Well they were all wearing black, and the clothes all looked pretty similar, though the one thing keeping me from saying yes is that there were no slogans or emblems on them. I've served the military in my time, and I would've recognized any signs of an organization."  
  
Max heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep frustration from swallowing him up whole.  
  
"Did you see which way they went? Did any of them say where they were going? Anything like that?" Rachel tried but the old man shook his head.  
  
"They all took off in every which direction. The ones with your friend went off toward a back road, but that thing leads to a thousand different directions. I'm really sorry."  
  
Max and Rachel tried a few more questions, and when nothing seemed to get them anywhere closer to finding the kidnappers, they took their leave, visibly discouraged. When they got into Max's car, he didn't start it right away. Where would they go?  
  
"Well..." Max sighed, looking down at his lap. "That was fruitful."  
  
"What I don't get is why they haven't called for ransom yet." Rachel was looking out the window with a look of sincere consternation.   
  
"Maybe it was personal? I can't think of anyone who would have a grudge on him."  
  
Rachel looked at him, startled. "I don't want to think that. That would mean that he is most likely dead, and I'm not ready to believe that he's dead yet. Besides, that Leonard man said that the guy had his men "sedate" him. Obviously, there was some kind of plan that had been established." Rachel turned back toward the window, quietly hating the weather for being so beautiful and light and sunny. It was the wrong setting. Softly, she asked, "Where are you, Berto?" Max turned on the engine, and pulled away, having nothing better to do than head back to N-Tek. Someone was going to have to call the Martinez family.  
  
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Franklin drew in a long breath, hands clamped over his face, and let the air out loudly, trying to drown out the faint buzzing that was beginning to leave his ears ringing. He was beginning to annoy even himself, sounding like a broken record, asking the same questions over and over again. And Martinez hadn't said a thing yet. Franklin had been extremely lenient with the brass knuckles the day before, taking note of the fact that the prisoner may have already had a busted rib or two, and he'd even skipped the stretch rack for the same reasons. No one could say that Franklin Finer wasn't merciful.   
  
"Okay..." He put his hands down. "How many is this, Chani?"  
  
Chani, a tall, dark haired man, turned from the small power-box he was holding on the table in front of him, and consulted a chart that was crudely drawn with a sharpie pen. "Thirteen times on level three."  
  
"Fine then. Seven more times, and then maybe we'll save level four for another time, okay? What do you think, Martinez?" No response. "Come on, now. This is an easy one. Do you think that it's a good idea? Yes or No?" But Martinez just lay there on the table, not even struggling against the clamps that held his wrists and ankles anymore. He just looked up at the ceiling with glassy eyes and a look of resignation. Franklin shrugged. "Okay, it's not important. Next question. You've heard this one before. You've had time to think it over, I'm sure, as you've seemed too preoccupied to answer any of the others. Now... Is Max Steel a pseudonym or alias for another man? Yes or No?" Franklin had taken to asking simple yes or no questions along time ago in order to hopefully induce the prisoner to even just give a murmur of an answer. No such luck. After a moment, he threw his eyes toward Chani as a signal. "All right, Dr. Martinez. Then you've won another round of level three. Number fourteen, Chani."  
  
Chani turned a dial on the power-box and the buzzing noise grew louder, bringing one side of his mouth up in a half smile. The prisoner clamped his eyes shut as his body stiffened and his back arched up a little. Convulsive tremors racked his body and his fingers curled involuntarily around the edge of the table as bolt after bolt of level three electricity coursed through his limbs and made it near impossible to breath. It stopped as soon as it started but began again just as immediately. Round fourteen lasted approximately forty-three seconds, and then Chani turned the dial back down. He shook his head at the young man before him who was now coughing and violently gasping for air as he had done the last fifty-three times since level one, only now more desperately. He was still trembling from the after-effects, and compulsory tears traced down his temples and wetted his hair.  
  
"I will remind you yet again, Dr. Martinez, that we could have skipped all this and been done days ago. You still have your chance, too. The minute you open your mouth and tell me something useful, I let you walk free." Franklin almost sounded exasperated as well as hopeful. He really did just want to end it, and he was even close to feeling bad for the poor kid... but not by much. Anything done in the name of exploration required patience, and Franklin had tons of it. Universe after universe of patience. It was a virtue he was pleased to possess; it made stress that much more easier to handle. "Okay, maybe we'll cut it down to three or four more. He looks like he's barely holding on to consciousness now. You can cry if you want to, Doctor. Heaven knows I certainly would. You're obviously no superhero, and who is? I mean, besides our friend Mr. Steel, anyway. You've been very brave this far, though. I've got to give you credit for that." Franklin jerked his fist in the air to punctuate. "Next question. What gives Max Steel his strength?"  
  
  



	5. ch5

This one is really short, but along with it, I give my promise to make the next one really good... I hope. Good in MY standards, anyway. So I think I finally have an idea as to where to go with this. Tell me what you think.  
  
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Hey look! Finally a Berto POV. Yey! On with the story.....  
  
  
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He would say nothing. Not a blessed thing. That friendly looking psychopath could ask questions until his throat turned raw. He would know nothing about Max Steel or nano-probes or anything if Roberto Martinez had anything to do with it. He would die an uncountable number of painful deaths before letting a good friend into the hands of danger. Berto drew in a very slow breath, almost wishing for death. It hurt to breath. It hurt to do anything but lie there and repeat Hail Mary after Hail Mary, over and over, in his head. He drowned out the annoyingly congenial sound of that man's voice. It was sickening. He kept pretending to be so nice and then bringing on more sessions of torture, persisting until he had a scrap of anything, Max's favorite dessert, the color of his underwear, whatever. His main objective seemed to be getting Berto simply to talk. The minute Berto knew his intent, however, he immediately clammed up, not even giving his captor the benefit of hearing a plea for mercy.  
  
It had been hard, especially when Franklin's nasty friend had hooked him up to a machine he recognized as being used for electric shock therapy. How he had wanted to scream then. But the momentary paralysis of every inch of his being as it exploded with burning pain liberated him from the chore of wailing and crying like a weak, little animal. And as he finally blacked out, he thought silently, *gracias, La Madre de Dios.*   
  
He had dreams. Nothing significant. Just dreams. Heavy stones sitting over his lungs, being struck by lightening, having a train run over his body, other painful things to correspond with how he felt when he was awake. There were a few though, of being home or with his friends or being at work. Sweet and gentle dreams that made the stones and the lightening trivial and less hurtful. They reminded him, upon waking, that he was still alive and someone would come to rescue him, most likely Max and Rachel. He would think of his friends, probably looking for him at that very moment, and he would thank Heaven and the Stars and everything revered for having some one to be so close to. He knew that if it were one of them, he'd be turning over every leaf and building to find them.  
  
There was noise in the next room. Most likely they were setting up for the next session. Berto wondered with disgust what they had planned for him now. A bed of nails might be on the agenda or, perhaps, a pot of boiling oil to dip him in. Berto closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away. That sort of thinking made him feel vulnerable; his perseverance was already threatening to crumble and he was seriously entertaining the idea of a little self pity with some broken down crying thrown in for good measure. He was tired and hurt and very near losing it... But he prayed. He prayed and he forced himself to relax, and he focused on centering his mind. Eventually he finally fell into a light slumber, undisturbed. Franklin Finer always let him rest for a day before continuing. It was to allow him to heal, somewhat. How thoughtful.  
  
  
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"Hey, Frank. Why don't you let me try to coach him, eh? I know how to soften him up." Chani suggested with a malicious look. Franklin grimaced inwardly before turning a sharp and stern look to his companion.  
  
"You keep your sick disorders to yourself, Chani." He barked. "We're just trying to torture him into giving us information. Not humiliate him. For pity's sake... give the man some dignity." He watched Chani role his eyes but shrug resolutely. Franklin shook his head with repulsion. The guy was loyal and a great hire and all, but his sexual masochism was revolting and unnerving. Fortunately, he mostly kept it out of business and took medications and whatnot. Still, Franklin felt the necessity to give continual verbal warnings and strict rules.  
  
The two finished cleaning up the wires from the voltage mess, and they proceeded to set up for the next, what Franklin liked to call, experiment. Then he went next door and peeked his head in the room. Martinez was asleep; albeit, he looked kind of like a corpse, but they'd put a little color in him soon enough. Franklin leaned in a little further. He was a nice looking kid: sleek, black hair, the exotic and attractive features of an alluring Spaniard. Probably a real lady-killer. It was enough to make Franklin the tiniest bit jealous. He could see Chani's attraction, but Chani was still a sicko, so he really didn't count. Franklin closed the door again, made sure it was securely locked, and disappeared down the hall after seeing that Chani was on his way out. 


	6. ch6

Hey everybody. I've got a quick note for you all about that last chapter. Don't think that Chani's going to do anything; I was just putting in some character developements so ya'll could get to know the bad guys. Sorry if there were any missunderstandings. I'm really proud of this chapter so I hope there will be a lot of reviews on it. take care, everyone, and enjoy.  
  
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On with the story!  
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Three hundred fifty two... PING! Three hundred fifty three... PING! Three hundred fifty four... Tired and growing increasingly annoyed as he pulled on the gear only to watch it pop back into place, Max suddenly snatched up the ever unfinished piece of gadgetry and threw it violently across the room. Whatever it would have been smashed loudly against the wall and springs, sprockets, and other small nuts and bolts exploded in every direction. Heaving loudly, he let out a sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a dry sob, and he stormed out of the lab, blinking furiously to keep from breaking down and outright crying. Josh would never act like this, he thought. But he didn't feel like leaving Max-mode. Not until he could do something to get control of himself. Maybe work out in the rec room.  
  
Ten days now. Ten damn, more stressful than he could image, days. Laura had called a few times, and he'd had to do a number of back-bending magic acts to avoid her at first, with his father's help of course. But the search had gone nowhere so everyone was finally notified and, routine procedure for any normal citizen, posters were put up, asking the inhabitants of Del Oro Bay to keep an eye out for missing person: Roberto Martinez, technician of Extreme Sports company N-Tek. Eighteen year old male, black hair, brown eyes, five foot seven, one hundred fifty pounds... there was a picture too. Max hated to look at it. It made his stomach knot up and his chest constrict. He felt guilty for letting something happen so easily. He felt hate toward whoever had done this. He felt helpless at not knowing what he could do. But, most of all, he felt worry and concern because he had no idea what was happening to his friend.  
  
Max was still striding powerfully down the hall, toward his dad's office, when he suddenly felt weak and slowed before halting to lean heavily on the wall. He changed his mind. He didn't want to be Max right now. Max Steel was being ill tempered and unpredictable. Max Steel was too emotional right now and would probably end up doing something irresponsible. He poked at his wrist and turned into Josh McGrath, still leaning against the wall and feeling defeated. A drive, he thought. Maybe a drive would help. He turned the other direction and moved sluggishly toward the elevators to ground floor.  
  
Once he was in his car, he pulled away and simply drove wherever his steering wheel took him. He concentrated on the feel of the wind, on his face and whipping his hair around. He took deep breaths and stretched his back out, and some time later, he wasn't even sure how long, he ended up outside of Laura's apartment building. He sat there, wondering how he'd gotten there, and a few moments later, Laura came out and walked over to his car.  
  
"I saw you out my window." She said softly. There was concern in her eyes as she looked sadly down at him. "You want to come in?"  
  
Josh looked at her, but couldn't answer so he shook his head as he turned his eyes back to the steering wheel.  
  
"You want to go somewhere?"  
  
Josh sighed. "Could we walk a bit?" He asked, getting out of the car. Laura nodded and took his hand firmly in her own as they made their way down the sidewalk at a grueling and slow pace. Neither said anything for a while. Josh was thankful that he had Laura. What if it had been her? What if it had been his dad? Or Rachel? Josh gripped Laura's hand tightly as a lump formed from his chest and swelled into his throat. Stopping in his tracks, he turned to look at Laura, searching her face. He felt helpless, and he hated it. He hated feeling so vulnerable. His heart hurt. He felt lost. He missed his friend.  
  
"Josh..." Brow creased with worry, Laura reached a hand up and touched his chest. It was then Josh realized his cheeks were wet with tears.  
  
"I don't know what to do." He choked with a broken voice. Laura wrapped her arms around him and held him as he began to cry into her shoulder, muffling his noisy sobs as he clutched her to him as though for dear life. Her own eyes were moistening as she heard him cry again, "I don't know what to do!"  
  
  
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Franklin Finer looked at the meager file on his desk. There was no information on Max Steel anywhere. He existed though; Franklin had witnessed him first hand, and he knew that Dr. Roberto Martinez was connected to him somehow.  
  
It was when Franklin had worked for Dread. He was introduced to this Max Steel doing a job for the old man. He was one of the lowest ranking in his team and had been left with the simple task of guarding the door of a large warehouse full of crates of all sizes filled with equipment. Given his job description, no one bothered to inform Franklin of their contents. Needless to say, Franklin got tired of the job in its entirety and began to devise a way to get out of it. It was something he did habitually. He liked to call them experiments. Just things and hobbies he took up to explore. Mostly they involved goals that rendered him sometimes money and sometimes power...or both if he was lucky. If the projects didn't work out, he casually set them down to try again some other time or simply turn toward another path. Being the patient man he was, his experiments sometimes involved nothing but lots of book studying, and sometimes the experiments called for simple job applications to explore the world of learning, taking orders and, most importantly, gaining. One could gain most anything. And Franklin Finer was slowly gaining assets of his own. Not to mention he managed to study his opponents and their behavior. Everything ended up working to his benefit.  
  
He'd gone behind one of the giant crates to lazily smoke a cigarette when he'd heard a scraping noise followed by a soft thud. Ever cautious and always practicing suspicion, not to mention never the one to jump into a scene - if that were the case - Franklin hastily threw down the unlit smoke and pressed up against the crate. Creeping his way toward the edge, he peeked around the corner in time to see the notorious agent that Dread was always talking about take out one of Franklin's team. The guy didn't kill him. Just knocked him out. How endearing.  
  
Curious, Franklin continued to watch as the agent scouted the area, waiting for someone else to jump out and attack as most every one of Dreads idiots had a habit of doing. Franklin knew better, though. He stayed hidden as, sure enough, about a half a dozen or so of the fools from his team came storming in upon hearing the warning of a wandering goon just before he, too, was put down for a nap. This agent was good. What happened next, though, is what sparked Franklin's interest.  
  
The men all had guns. The agent ducked behind a smaller crate as they all opened fire on him. He disappeared for only a moment, and when he leapt back out, there was a strange yellow glow around his body, as though his very skin was sparked with electricity. He jumped an astonishing twelve feet into the air and landed behind two of the men, easily taking them out by knocking their heads together. Then he flipped and performed a number of acrobatic maneuvers down the middle of the crowd, causing two more men, the imbeciles, to shoot each other down. He grabbed another's gun and shoved the barrel toward the ground, delivering a kick to the man's head. Still holding the gun, the Superman used the butt end to smash it into the face of a guy who was attempting to rush him. Franklin grinned. He was absolutely amazing. Just remarkable. What was his name? Steel? Eight more seconds found the rest of the crew lying on the floor. Steel looked around himself with a satisfactory nod. Then he put a finger to his ear.  
"Max Steel does it again. These guys are ready for you, Raech. Steel out." Then he began knit-picking his way over the bodies. "Yah, I hear you, Berto. How do my vitals look?" A moment later, he rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay. No more turbo mode." He touched one of his wrists, and the yellow glow disappeared. Was that the source of his power? The look on his face looked somewhat distanced, and Franklin figured the guy on the other end was saying something. Sure enough, Steel responded in a thick voice, "Yes Madre. Yeesh, Berto. You're worse than Rachel sometimes, you know that?" A second later he laughed. "Roberto Martinez, you kiss your computer with that mouth?" He proceeded to open one of the crates to see what was inside.   
Franklin, in the meantime, stored the name into the back of his mind for later use. No way he was going to try and take on THE Max Steel. Maybe that Martinez fellow knew how Steel was getting that extra power he displayed. Plus... Steel's vital signs? The guy was obviously monitoring the agent's use of energy and probably that glow too. Perhaps the glow was what caused the extra feets of strength. Maybe Steel was wearing some kind of sensors or something that relayed information back to a computar... a computar attended by the Martinez guy?   
  
Franklin paid no more attention to anything Steel was doing. He began to concentrate on how to get a hold of that technology, if that's what it was. But Franklin was almost positive that it had to be. Did Dread know anything about it, marking the guy his archenemy and all? If he did, Franklin decided, he was not the guy to see. Besides... Franklin grinned. Here was another experiment in the making. He stayed hidden until he found a chance to make an escape.  
  
  
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"Hey boss?" Ander startled Franklin awake. He realized, blinking his eyes, that his reminiscing had caused him to dose off. He looked at Ander who was standing over him with a questioning look. Chani must have gone back to his apartment for a bit. That was fine. Ander was better company anyway, more like Franklin himself. And he had a nicer looking visage than Chani too... less creepy. "Sorry, Frank. I was just wondering if you wanted to get the fire going soon. It's near one o'clock, and Stan will be coming around any minute now."  
  
Franklin stretched in his swivel chair and yawned. "Yah, wait till he gets here. That pyromaniac won't want to miss a minute of it, I'm sure." Getting up, he went to the hall and opened the door to the prisoner's room. Ander had followed him but leaned against the doorframe in a bored manner as Franklin stood next to the gurney and put his face right up to Martinez's. "Time to wake up, amigo. It's a beautiful day, eh doctor?" When Martinez slowly opened his eyes and then squinted in an attempt to focus, Franklin smiled down at him. "That myopia's a bitch isn't it? So what's going on?"  
  
With dry, cracked lips, Martinez responded in a voice that was no more than a whisper, raw and husky from disuse. "Usted tiene aliento malo."  
  
Franklin creased his brow and frowned, blinking a moment in confusion. Then he straightened and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what you said, but I guess bringing in a translator wouldn't help because I'm pretty sure you just insulted me and *didn't* just give me a vital piece of information." Martinez only looked at him steadily. "Anyway, I hope you're ready for another fun day of trying to break you. I've got so many different things lined up. I'm hoping that most of it will not have to be taken out because it's always such a mess to clean up later. Wouldn't you rather make this all really simple?" He raised his eyebrows at Martinez hopefully then sighed when he found he was going to be answered by silence YET again. Always like he was talking to a wall. A wall that, on rare occasion, would give a short retort in Spanish just to spite him. But Franklin Finer didn't mind too much. The kid had to give in at some point.  



	7. ch7

  
*Hi everyone! I took my time so this chapter wouldn't be so short. I thought you might appreciate that*  
  
*On with the story...*  
  
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Rachel sat in a swivel chair, her shoulders slumped and her eyes gazing sadly at the large monitor. She'd seen the worry in Laura's face and heard Josh's painful cries before she hurriedly shut off the link, and now she sat there dejectedly, watching the black screen as it stared ominously right back at her miserable expression. She was sitting in Berto's seat; this was his usual station. It hurt to see it so empty, so Rachel had spent the last couple of days, occupying his chair and willing some sort of answer to make itself known.   
The first thing they had done, she and Max, was to assume John Dread or one of his associates. It was somewhere to start... it was the only place they could think of to start.  
  
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"What is he doing, Leon?" Rachel sipped hesitantly at her hot coffee, anger still tracing through her blood but beginning to thin out into consternation and... was it anxiety? Of course it was, she scolded herself; what else should she feel but worry? But she had to stay composed. For Berto's sake. Breathing in the stale smell of the living room she was in, she gazed over at the owner of the poorly furnished room. Her contact. She studied Leon, hoping from her very soul that he would have something, anything, some information that would give a clue to Berto's whereabouts.   
  
"Not a whole lot, I'm afraid. Mostly just scheming, I guess. You know my place, Rachel; I only know what my employer tells me. He only knows what Dread tells him." Leon could tell, though, that Rachel was starting to look haggard. Something was wrong, and she was stressed. "Why? What's going on?"  
  
"One of our agents, our top scientist, is missing, and we're just assuming, for now, that Dread is behind it."  
  
"And why would Dread abduct this certain agent, besides the fact that he or she is associated with N-Tek's technology?" There was no skepticism in Leon's voice, but Rachel thought she could hear uncertainty.  
  
"Because this particular agent also happens to know, more than anyone, about Max Steel and what makes him tick. This particular agent would be a valuable asset to Dread." This made Leon widen his eyes in understanding and breath out an awed 'oh.'  
  
"I'm pulling things out of the air, here, Leon. If there's anything you could give me... anything at all..." Leon could hear the plea in her voice. Obviously Rachel knew this agent on a personal level and was truly concerned for his or her well-being. He bit his lip, looking down at the coffee table in front of him with a creased forehead. Rachel watched him for a moment, willing herself to not grow impatient.  
  
"Well..." Leon looked back up at her with a thoughtful frown. "The only thing I can think of is: there was a shipping deal about a month ago, and your man, Steel, busted it. One of the hired guys got away, but he never reported back to Dread, and when they looked him up, he was gone. They mostly think he got scared and probably ran off to Tahiti or something. But they've sent someone out to find him. I don't remember his name, he hadn't been with Dread very long, but one of the guys you put away might remember him. Try asking Rich Marlette. He's royally pissed at Steel and might've tipped the guy off, maybe gave some information he caught or something."  
  
"But then that would mean that Marlette knows where to find this guy. You said he was missing." Rachel said with an annoyed tinge to her voice.  
  
Leon shrugged and put his hands in the air, exasperated. "I don't know! Like you, I'm making random theories, here. How do you know whoever swiped your agent is after Steel, anyway? If he's such a smart scientist and all, how can you be so sure they didn't just nab him up because they need a guy of that quality?"   
  
Rachel stood up abruptly, trembling with rage. "You think I didn't consider that option?! Dammit, Leon, I'm trying to find a lead I can get a grasp on! I can't just randomly pull up any terrorist or organized crime leader and ask them if they happen to be hording an associate of ours!" Her voice was breaking, and Leon could see that her breathing was heavy. "We just want our guy back."  
  
"You just want your friend back." Leon said softly. There was a pause, and then Rachel suddenly heaved as though she were about to throw up. "Rachel..." Her eyes were wide, and she looked as though she had suddenly been slapped in the face. Slowly, she straightened, and there was a brief struggle as she fought to regain her equability. Leon stood and moved to reach out and touch her arm, but she turned away and indignantly dragged her feet toward the door. "Rachel wait." When she paused and looked back at him, he sighed. "Okay, how about this... there's this one fellow who works for Dread. Pitts, I think is his name, and he's completely obsessed with this loyalty toward his work. He'll do just about anything to make sure he's in Dread's good graces. He's been working independently lately. Maybe you could find something on him?"  
  
Rachel forced a sad smile. "Thanks Leon. I'll look him up. Pitts?"  
  
"Yeah. Pitts. Danny Pitts."  
  
"Right. I'll check out Marlette and Pitts. See? There's two possibilities taken care of right there." Rachel walked back over and shook his hand. "You've been a great help." She let herself out, and Leon flopped back into his sofa chair, hoping that the information really had been useful.  
  
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There was a loud crack, the sound of flesh on flesh, and then Rich Marlette flew across the room, crashing bodily into the bench that sat against the wall.  
  
"You want to repeat that?" Came the sharp demand from Max Steel. His face looked almost maniacal as he advanced again toward Marlette, otherwise known as Prisoner 11487. "I dare you to say it again!" Rachel watched from the doorframe, half sullenly cheering him on, and half wishing he'd calm down. Knowing the cause of his wild fury made it hard to watch him. She waited a moment or two, though, before interrupting. A part of her wanted to throw a few punches at Marlette too, just to satisfy herself, even though there was still the probability he had nothing to do with anything they were here to see him about. Still... to have a reason to release.  
  
"Max." She finally said calmly, though she didn't feel calm. She felt the way Max looked. She watched him reluctantly back away, his jaw clenched. It was strange. Usually he did this kind of stuff with humor, a twinkle in his eye, and Rachel would sometimes role her eyes before amusedly calling him off like a dog. But today was different. Today a friend was likely in danger.  
  
Max jabbed a finger in Marlette's direction where the cringing fellow was pulling himself up off the floor into a sitting position. "Just answer her questions, or I'll break both of your legs!"  
  
"Okay, okay! What do you want to know?" Rich rubbed at his sore cheek, looking fearfully at Max and seeing the menace that seemed to radiate from him. Yeesh! What was wrong with this guy?  
  
Rachel snorted. Marlette was too weak. He wouldn't be let back in to Dread's team anytime soon. Arms crossed over her chest, she stood next to Max and looked down at the mousy looking prisoner who peered back up at her through beady little eyes. "You were involved in a transaction that entailed the shipping of equipment a few weeks ago."  
  
"Duh. You were the ones that busted it." Marlette began to retort further, but the threatening look of his interrogators shut him up right quick. "So what about it?"  
  
"One of your companions got away and has been missing since. Do you know who I'm talking about?" Rachel ignored his sneer.  
  
"Yeah. I remember the guy."  
  
"What was his name?"  
  
Rich Marlette's face grimaced in thought. "Fred or Frank something. Finnish, I think. Yah. Frank Finnish. The yellow bastard just took off running or something. Coward." He made like he was about to spit for good measure.  
  
"What can you tell us about him?"  
  
"Why don't I just tell you all about Dread and his whole organization while I'm at it?" Marlette snapped defiantly. "You can just go and piss off!"  
  
This is about the point that Max would usually chuckle, making a show of being malicious and sadistic. Today, however, his face turned red, and before Rachel even had the chance, he snarled and then rushed Marlette, shoving him aggressively against the wall and grasping his shirtfront in tight fists. "Tell us, dammit, or I swear you'll wish you were never even a twinkle in your mother's eye!"  
  
Maybe Rich Marlette saw the intensity in his eyes, or maybe he was just a wimp. Either way, he was put in his place, and he finally agreed to tell what he knew. "Okay, okay, man. Let me go!" Rachel finally convinced Max to loosen his grip, and Rich, red faced, sank back onto the floor, pulling on his collar. "All I know is Frank's only been with us a few months and seemed more concerned with learning about the way we operate than anything else. He only made himself useful and got off his lazy ass when we were doing something real important. I remember once I heard him mention something about plans for the future. He was going to have the latest of everything, be rich, you know, stuff like that. He didn't talk much else besides that. He was a real weird one; if he wasn't so damned polite and pleasant all the time, I'd say he was real cold, you know?"  
  
This unnerved Rachel. Maybe they could go find the Pitts guy instead. Of course, that was just stupid. She reminded herself that anybody that worked for Dread, loyal or not, might sound upsetting. This Finnish sounded like a psycho, though. Rachel might have even preferred to hear that he was brutish and mean. You could never tell with a psycho. Sometimes they were capable of things far worse than brutality.  
  
  
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She wasn't sure what she had expected to find. She had even reminded herself that the possibilities they were exploring were long shots and they shouldn't get their hopes up. Getting back to N-Tek headquarters, though, and searching any and all available files on Pitts, Finnish, Marlette, anything even remotely related, proved to be grim and gut-wrenchingly unsuccessful. Unable to stop herself, Rachel had felt completely frustrated, like tearing her skin away from her bones, and she had spent a good four and a half hours in the work-out room, releasing only a fraction of the pent up anger and aggravation that filled her mind. Too many questions, too many mysteries... where the hell was Berto, who the hell took him, and what the hell was she supposed to do?!  
  
Finally, she took a half-hour long, scalding hot shower and, having nothing better to do, headed for the monitor room that was the home operations consol for Max's life functions, his stats, his vital signs, everything there was to be seen on Max Steel... and Josh McGrath. The room wasn't empty; Jefferson Smith stood behind the unoccupied swivel chair, his mighty form drooped pitifully as he watched the screen. Stepping up quietly beside him, she laid her hand on his arm and looked at the visual. A knee was in view and beyond it, the floor. She could also see a hand holding an unidentifiable contraption, one of Berto's uncountable experiments, and a finger was pulling back on a spring, letting it snap back into place, then pulling again.  
  
"Sometimes I think that Dr. Martinez has gotten closer to my son than me," came Smith's soft voice, deep and smooth. "I'm thankful for that, though I wish that I could have more time for him. At least there are people who can be personal with him. Sometimes I think... that I could have been a better father."  
  
"Don't say that. You're a wonderful father, and even Max... Josh knows that. He loves you. He knows that you're always there for him when he needs you."  
  
Smith gestured toward the screen with his head. "What do I do for him now? All we've come up with is empty handed results and more questions than we started out with." He turned to look at Rachel, his eyes filled with unhappiness. "I can't stand to see my son so troubled; he's a wreck. And I'm concerned for Berto too. He's exceptional and intelligent, but he's just a young man. He has a worried family, worried friends, and God knows how he's feeling right now." Smith looked back toward the consol helplessly. "We need him. There's a piece of N-Tek that is dependent on him... and Max Steel is, to a degree, dependant on him too." Jefferson then sighed softly. "We need him," he repeated.  
  
Rachel watched as Jefferson Smith worried and struggled and racked his brain for an answer, any answer. "We won't stop looking." She tried to assure him. "We never give up."  
  
Smith nodded. "You're right. I'm going to my office." He patted her on the hand. "I'm doing this for Josh too."  
  
After he'd left, Rachel had finally sat, feeling somewhat encouraged, though not much, and she let herself slump downward a bit after watching Max toy, almost robotically, with the gadget. At some point, heaving a sigh, she switched on the audio link, not sure what she was going to say, but whatever it was, the words died in her throat as she heard the cry of rage and saw the scrap of machinery fly into the wall. Stupefied, she gazed in ghastly wonder as Max stomped out of the room and down the hall heading... where? Then he slowed and then slumped against the wall, breathing heavily. Rachel wanted to say something, but she didn't know what to tell him, and part of her wanted to just let him be. Let him blow off steam. He was frustrated too. So she sat, and she watched. Max turned into Josh, Josh got into his car and drove all over Del Oro Bay and finally ended up in front of a building. He sat there until his girlfriend came out, and they walked down the street a ways. Then he began to cry, and Rachel couldn't watch anymore. She shut off the link, hit the power to the screen, and now she sat, listening to the silence thunder inside her ears and feeling her heart grow heavier and heavier.  
  
I don't know what to do, he had cried. Did no one have any ideas? Were they all at a loss? Did anyone know what to do? Rachel clapped her hands over her face. Damn this situation! Damn it!  
  
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There was the hiss of burning flesh followed by a stifled noise that was somewhere between a groan and a snarl, but Franklin could hear the pain behind it and the agonized frustration. "Well if you'd answer the questions..." He grumbled. He surveyed his handiwork. Martinez had his wrists bound together above his head and was suspended from the ceiling, his toes barely holding his weight on the ground. He was stripped of his shirts and there was a shine of perspiration on his dark skin. It made Franklin feel delightedly authentic. The burning fire in the fireplace and the dim lights, and his prisoner squirming with pain and severe discomfort almost made him giddy. Almost... he was an explorer, an experimenter, not a heathen for pity's sake.  
  
So he scrutinized, with a studious eye rather than a malicious one, what he'd done so far. To his prisoners back, the area high on his sides, the triceps area of his arms; they were tender areas to heat. Now they were covered in bleeding welts, most of them cauterized the instant the iron poker was pressed to the skin. Bleh, they were pretty gruesome. Franklin decided he wouldn't want to be the doctor right then, and then an idea struck him.  
  
"I know," he exclaimed. "What if I let you ask me a question or two. I'll bet you I at least have the decency to answer. What do you think, Martinez? Is there anything that you would like to know?" He came around to look the young man in the face. Martinez was looking at him skeptically through a pain-filled haze. "No really. I'm going to let you ask me anything you want. I know you've got something twisting and turning in your head somewhere. There is, isn't there?" After a long, tedious pause, the kid gave a small nod. "See, I knew it. Go ahead; what is it?"  
  
(A.N. This part goes to Andrea. Thanks for the notes; I used them as reminders) It took a moment for Martinez to get his dry mouth to work, and then his voice came out, barely there, breathy and scratchy. "Why go to all this trouble. How come you don't just use truth serum or something and save time?" It took a deal of effort to ask, forcing the words through a raw throat.   
  
Franklin grinned good-naturedly. "You really are a smart one. Well truth be told, I'm just old fashioned. Plus, I wanted to see if this method would work for this day and age. People in old times must have had some sort of tolerance for brutality and affliction. These days, though, people are more tender, a lot weaker. It's interesting to experiment, don't you think?"  
  
"Not when you're on the receiving end." Came the frail response, as though Martinez was getting tired. Franklin cocked his head and smirked.  
  
"Aw, come on now. You just answered a question back. Now don't you feel better now that we're having a halfway lucid conversation? I know that I feel tons more sentient. C'mon, give me another question."  
  
There was another brain-dulling silence as Martinez scrutinized the floor, seeing if the linoleum had anything to offer. Finally he looked up. "What gave you the idea that my watch had a communication device on it?"  
  
Franklin suddenly looked sheepish. Giving an embarrassed chuckle, he cleared his throat before speaking. "Actually, I thought it was your glasses. I thought I'd just syke you out or something. I don't even know what the hell I thought, just that I'd get rid of anything that may have had some kind of tracking signal or something. I was incompetent; sue me. So anyway... was I right?" He received a withering glance in return and shrugged instead of feeling silly. "Well a guy can never be too careful, now can he? What else?" But he noticed he was loosing Martinez. His eyes looked droopy, and his head was nodding. "No, I don't think so. Stan..." He gestured to the large man who sat by the fireplace, quiet up until now. Stan got up and reached for a familiar looking bucket that sat behind his chair.  
  
"You're not done yet." He bellowed in a low voice, and then he dumped the icy water right over the young man's head, eliciting a sharp gasp and then a hitched breath, as the action had aggravated the broken ribs.  
  
"Hey, careful now. Look at me, Martinez." Franklin grabbed his prisoner by the chin. "You're going to answer questions for me now, right? Your turn."  
  
Blinking rapidly and trying to find some resemblance of composure, Martinez finally said gruffly, "I already did."  
  
Ander suddenly laughed from the doorway, and Franklin looked at him in annoyance. "What?"  
  
Stan was also snickering and answered. "He's right. No, you weren't right about the watch, and no, he don't think the torture's an interesting experience. He answered your questions."  
  
Franklin looked back at Martinez in bafflement and exasperation. "You tricky little weasel!" He sounded more amazed than angry, but there was a monstrous light in his eyes. "I suppose that means you won't be saying much else, though, huh?" At that, the prisoner gave him a glare that dared him to assume otherwise. Suddenly, Franklin felt he'd been had, and it irked him in the form of a little niggling at the back of his neck. Face twitching slightly, he went to the fireplace and snatched up the red, glowing iron rod.  
  
"You know," Franklin said loudly, almost sounding annoyed. "I could just stick this thing right on your sly tongue, and you'll never talk again!" He held the poker dangerously close to Martinez's lips, a threatening look on his face. When he saw a flash of fear in the younger man's eyes, though, Franklin suddenly felt like he had gained a small achievement. But then Martinez turned his frightened gaze from the glowing end of the stick to Franklin's face, and Franklin saw a bright spark of anger in those dark, shining eyes. Lowering the poker for a moment, he thought he would stare his prisoner down, but suddenly there was spit in his eye. Backing away, he rubbed at his face to remove the offending saliva.  
  
"Ah Geeze! I wasn't really going to stick it in your mouth, you little snipe!" He almost sounded like a kid... like a kid who had threatened to make a younger sibling eat a worm or something, then backed out of the threat with annoyance when the sibling began to cry. Franklin was no kid... but he was feeling just as indignant at the moment. He stormed around to Martinez's back, harshly grabbed him by the arm, and then jabbed the poker into his ribs, hard. He almost flinched back again when a scream hit his ears. He blinked in amazement, watching as his captive writhed desperately about.  
  
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Berto shut his eyes tightly. He couldn't believe he had wailed like that. But it had come so involuntarily... that maniac had stabbed him for crying out loud! Close... he was so damned close to doing something as desperate as pleading for his life. *Madre de Dios!* His mind cried out. *Santos me preservan!* He couldn't stop trembling. How could something like this happen? A person only read about this kind of torture in books and saw it in period movies and things of the like. Lord, how his body hurt! It was frightening and disturbing to feel such an extent of physical pain. It clouded the mind and set steam in his eyes. It made his joints quiver and his skin swelter. It made him send out wild prayers for mercy. Berto never thought he'd feel so frantic for his own life.  
  
Franklin was talking again, but Berto could barely hear him. He felt his head drop forward like a puppets, and as his chin touched his chest, his body went numb and everything around him blinked out into a black void. His last thought was, "until tomorrow, Mr. Finer." And then, as he floated into the beginnings of a dream, there was the sound of a whinnying horse and hoofs beating on the ground.  
  
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Ever since her husband, Amor, lost his life to the wild jungles of his travels, Anani Martinez was strained to be the best mother she could to her five children, four daughters and one tiny baby boy. She was a strong mother, and she was a kind mother. She made sure that her children were smart and courteous and that they could take care of themselves and each other. Ena, the oldest, was always there to help with the little ones, but things would still be hard sometimes. So each night, to chase their troubles away, Anani would sing to her children and tell them stories. Even Ena, with her beautiful voice, would create lovely music to soothe her younger siblings. The girls liked the fairy stories and the romantic tales their mother told, but Anani's youngest, Isabelle and Berto, liked the story of the traveling caballero best. It was an adventure, their favorite. They'd sit in her lap, a seven year old girl with long black hair streaming down her back, and a four year old boy with big eyes peering out through a set of round-rimmed glasses. Anani would take them in her arms and tell them of the young man who journeyed across the desserts of Mexico and South America to save his brother who had foolishly eloped with the daughter of a witch.  
  
Alonzo had fallen in love with a beautiful woman named Rosario. She had taken a liking to him, seduced him, and convinced him to come away with her to a city far away. So, one night, they snuck away from their village and disappeared into the darkness.  
  
The next day, Alonzo's brother Philippe went out on his horse, looking for him when he came upon a witch, the very witch who's daughter was Rosario. The witch told him that Rosario cast a spell on Alonzo in their wedding bed and now he slept, never to wake. There was a way to break the spell though. The witch told Philippe to ride his horse across the desserts to El Salvador where Rosario and Alonzo were. Along the way, he was to collect three things for the witch: a golden snake, the head of a magical mule, and the antennas from Rocha, a large cockroach the size of a dragon.  
  
Philippe was frightened, he hated snakes, and no one ever dared to venture near the cave where Rocha lived. But he thought of Alonzo, and he decided that he had to save his brother. So he steeled his nerves to the best of his abilities, and he rode away from his village and ventured south toward El Salvador.  
  
Along the way, he came across the golden snake, who tried to eat him. He ran away at first, fearful for his life, but remembered Alonzo and strived to come up with a plan. He convinced the snake that a herd of cows were coming and would trample the snake unless it hid. He lured the snake into a sack and then tied it up, continuing on his way. The snake, of course, was angry and threw many harsh words at Philippe, attempting to dishearten him. The words stung, and the young caballero came close to leaving the snake and going back home. But he kept his purpose in mind and pressed on.  
  
Next, he came upon the magical mule. It was extremely hard to gain the mule's trust, and then even harder to sneak up on it and use his sword to chop it's head off. To his horror, after the body fell to the ground, the head did not die. It berated Philippe and vowed revenge. Philippe, shaken to the core, forced himself to put the mule's head into another sack and took off once again.   
  
As he rode, the snake and the mule kept on with their rantings and horrible insults, making Philippe more and more miserable, frightening him with their threats and verbal abuse. He believed they were capable of there claims, and as he came upon a river, he felt scared enough, that he threw the sacks into the water and raced away. Then Alonzo came into his mind. He stopped to rest and sat on a rock, crying with the fear of having to go back and retrieving the snake and the mule, and crying with shame for running away. He had to rescue his brother. Gathering his wits, Philippe went back and rescued the sacks from the water.  
  
The snake and the mule had been frightened into silence for they'd thought that the caballero had meant to leave them to drown, and they behaved for the rest of the journey. Philippe came to a large cave, but he did not go in. He waited and trembled, and he tried to come up with a plan to kill the giant roach, or at least find a way to cut the antennas off and get away alive. He was still sitting there, wondering what to do, when Rocha came out of his cave and looked down at Philippe. Philippe was so terrified that his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fainted.  
  
When he woke up, he found that he wasn't dead, and the cockroach was still sitting there, chuckling at him. "Why does everyone think I'm an evil monster that will gobble them up the first chance that comes along?"  
  
"You're not going to kill me?" Asked the young caballero.  
  
"Of course not. I'm guessing that you've come to request something of me."  
  
Eventually, Philippe told Rocha of his plight, and the giant cockroach nodded his great head. "Is that all? I would gladly give over my antennas for your brother. I can grow more." So he plucked the antennas from his head and handed them to Philippe who thanked him and promised to return the favor some day. He continued his journey and finally came to El Salvador, where he found Rosario sitting beside Alonzo who lay in their wedding bed, lost in a very deep sleep. Philippe showed her the sacks and the antennas, and told her what her mother had said. Rosario scoffed.  
  
"My mother is too possessive. I love Alonzo, and no one will keep us apart." She took the items from Philippe, and put them into a pot of boiling water. They were the ingredients for the spell to wake Alonzo. What the witch did not know was that her daughter was practiced enough in the art of witchcraft to do the spell herself. She woke Alonzo from his slumber and all three rejoiced in the reunion. Alonzo told his brother that he had been so brave to do all the things he did. Philippe shook his head though, said that he had been too much of a coward, almost forgot the whole thing and went home... more than once even.  
  
"But you didn't, and here I stand before you, no longer under the witch's spell. I have no one but you to thank, for your bravery, Philippe."  
  
The moral of the story, of course, was courage, sticking it out to the end. Anani liked all her stories to have morals; it taught her children good ethics, and it helped them to grow up in a good way. Most of all, she wanted them to be able to do what they knew to be right, no matter what happened. Little did she know that one day, one of her own little children would one day be put to a test far more drastic than she would have imagined.  
  
  
  
*So what does everyone think? I got bored with writing the caballero story and that's why he gets out of the roach ordeal so easily. Please send me some reviews and tell my your opinions so far. Isn't everyone glad this part is so much longer? We're getting close to the end now. Keep reading!* 


	8. interlude

*Hi guys. So what's going on with this story?! I had this great idea about how to end it, but I had nothing to back it up with. So I thought I'd ask for an opinion or two, you know, have you help direct the lightbulb in my direction. See, the idea I had would be that I would bring in the roach (remember the original caballero story?) See, my thought would be that some one we least expected would be the one that helps Berto out, tips off Max to his wherebouts or something. Anyway, if anyone's got any ideas what to do with Franklin or Max or Berto, write to my email commare@hotmail.com Don't write it in the review cause you'll want it to be a secret or surprise to everyone else, right? So, anyway, here's my little interlude to hold y'all over for the time being.*  
  
*And.... on with the story!*  
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Josh was sleeping restlessly that night, perhaps a coincidental contrast with the raging storm that crashed across the sky outside. The meeting with Rich Marlette, for some reason, was following him, nibbling at the back of his head. There was something that he wasn't remembering. As he tossed on his pillow, words grated through his mind: a shipping deal, one he apprehended, a guy that got away, - but there had been no one else there, unless they were perhaps hiding - a guy that did not report back to Dread, plans for the future... none of it seemed to connect. Everything was hazy and blurred, like watching images pass by underwater. But then, as though he'd been transported, he was in the warehouse again, he was Max Steel, and all around him his sight was perfect, sharp, and clear. Dread's men were lying across the floor in disarray, all knocked out aside from the two dead ones who had been foolish enough to shoot right at each other. Max picked his feet up, stepping carefully over the bodies as he made his way over to a smaller crate to see what was inside. Clear as a bell, he heard himself say with sarcasm, "Yes, Madre. Yeesh, Berto. You're worse than Rachel sometimes, you know that?" Berto said something in Spanish then, and the tone of his voice was sharp. Max laughed, sure that it had been an expletive of some kind. "Roberto Martinez, you kiss your computer with that mouth?"  
  
Josh startled awake, sitting up in bed with a horrified look. He couldn't breathe, he was being suffocated by an overwhelming mortification and a sudden self-recrimination. That was what happened wasn't it? That guy that got away; he'd heard Max say Berto's name. Overcome by a wave of nausea, Josh brought his hand up and clamped his fist into his mouth, unable to fill his lungs with air. *What have I done?! Oh my God, what have I done?!* Shudders racked up his spine, and finally, tearing itself slowly up his throat, a strangled cry detached from the back of his mouth and exploded into the bedroom in the form of a blood-curling scream. Then he buried his face in his hands to muffle the screams that followed. Whatever happened to Berto, whatever was happening to Berto... was because of him. It was his fault. It was all they needed, just to know Berto's name and that he was associated with Max Steel. Anyone could have called him up with general information on him and easily pretended to be an authority or co-worker, or anybody associated with his family - anyone he knew - and abstractedly mentioned that he should meet so and so at some place or another. God, it was so devastatingly plain and horrifyingly unproblematic. And why not? They'd done it to Pete.  
  
Josh cried for the second time that day, only now, instead of helplessness, he was crying out of shame.  



	9. ch9

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Wow! Sorry I've taken so long, guys. I've finally come out of my writer's block box, sat my pootin down, and got to writing the stinkin' thing. I realized nothing was going to specify itself clearly until I actually started to put stuff down. I'd like to send out a million thanks to Andrea and Moondreamer for all their help; you guys are great!  
And, now that I've finally come up with this clever little bit, I hope that there will be a lot of reviews because this was a really big challenge, and I just wanted to know whether my efforts had been in vane. Thanks to everyone for being patient, and I hope you enjoy.  
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On with the story!  
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Out of the cocoon of inky blackness, he felt someone moving his limbs, and the inside of his mind screamed hysterically for them to stop because it hurt beyond words. They were cleaning him up and putting on a fresh pair of clothes, routine every other day or so. In a few minutes he'd feel a bit of stale water scraping its way down his throat to rest uncomfortably in his belly. Since his whole body was in too much pain to respond to anything his head told it, Berto concentrated on forcing his eyes to open. Through a bleary veil of mist that hung over his eyes, he could just barely make out the form of... was this one Ander? Yes, there was his light colored hair. His back was turned as he folded something or other and stuck it in a small basket on the ground.  
  
Finally! Berto had waited and waited for this chance. Usually he was unconscious during the ministrations, or he pretended to be if it was Finer or that tall, dark headed creep. The two or three times he had been awake, Berto would sneak peeks around to see what they brought in, hoping to find a first aid kit amongst the props brought in. To his delight, he found his luck to be better than he thought. They actually had a tray set up right next to the bed with various medical tools displayed across it in case they had to cauterize something that was hemorrhaging or let a festering wound bleed itself out or something.   
  
Today - or tonight; he never knew the time - he would at least attempt to preserve his own life. No one had come so far. He was sure his friends had to have realized he was missing by now, but didn't they have any idea where to look? It had been too long, and he was almost starting to believe the things Franklin told him: "the way it looks, Martinez, they're probably convinced you're dead by now." Then, Berto thought, I will prove them wrong. It had been too long, and he'd finally given up hope that anyone would find him anytime soon. For all he knew, he would be stuck with the psychopathic fortune finder until he was pile of bones and torn up flesh. The only consolation in that was the fact that Mr. Finer would be right back at the beginning, where he started.  
  
He closed his eyes as Ander turned toward him and then lifted up to a sitting position. The motion caused Berto to swoon and a wave of nausea overturned his stomach. His back was on fire, which really wasn't too far from the truth, there was still that uncomfortable buzzing in his joints, and his broken ribs poked at his lungs. Add to that the Guinness Book of World Records' worst headache, Berto had press his teeth together to keep from either moaning or throwing up. Ander was putting a long sleeve shirt tee shirt on him, and the fresh cotton aggravated the burns, at the same time keeping the stinging cold air from lashing at them. Berto grimaced. His bruised cheek rested gruffly against one of Ander's shoulders as the man lifted his arms into the sleeves. Every motion was torture. Finally, he was laid back down. He kept his eyes closed, but peeked through slits when he thought it was safe. Now, Berto thought wildly. Now was the time. As Ander turned away once again, Berto reached out, ever so silently, and plucked a scalpel from the table and slid it under the mattress right near the restraining strap, where his fingers could easily curl under and grab it later. Then he was still until Ander was finished and finally left.  
  
Berto was tied back up now and left in the dark. He lay there, struggling not to fall back into a restless state of unconsciousness. He was sometimes able to determine when the hallway outside his little room was still and wouldn't be occupied for a while. Once he determined it was safe, he took out the little knife and slowly but surely began to cut the strap from his wrist. The process was excruciatingly cumbersome as his fingers wouldn't work exactly right, and he gave himself numerous little nicks on the arm, but the fear and exhilarence of what he was doing kept him from noticing. He finally freed his arm, and quickly unbuckled the other one despite his protesting muscles. Pulling himself up into a sitting position was more of a challenge than he expected, but after several tries, and a lot of piercing pain, he finally managed to accomplish the task, and sat there a moment or two, taking in slow, difficult breaths. Ugh, the shirt was already sticking to his back, and his hair, long since rebelliously falling wherever it pleased, was dampening and sticking to his forehead. He'd almost forgotten how long it had gotten.  
  
Once he'd taken care of the ankle straps, he realized as he pulled his legs over the edge of the bed, that he was now at the point where he'd have to make his legs work on their own. It's okay, he told himself. Just take it one step at a time. Clutching the tiny scalpel in one hand, he slowly stood up, willed the room to stop spinning, and inched one bare foot across the cold floor. One. Was he tipping? He pushed the other foot forward. Two. The floor wasn't supposed to lean at that angle, was it? The door wasn't that far; it was only seven feet away... and there was the cart with the medical supplies right near it. But Berto's steps were ridiculously small ones, and he had to stop and gather his wits every few moments so he wouldn't pass out. He realized, with self-indignation, that he hadn't taken into account what he was going to do once he got out of the room. He didn't know where the hallway went, what floor he was on (if there was more than one) or even where in the world the building was. One step at a time, he reminded himself. First thing was first... get away and hide. After an eternity and a half, he finally reached the door and sank to his knees, resting his forehead against the cool wall. When he turned his head slightly, he could see the tray with it's instruments gleaming against the dim light. Syringes and small bottles ranked the front of the lines of clamps and scalpels. Perfect. Once he had regained his composure, he reached up his hand that held the scalpel; knuckles white, he began to pick the lock on the door. He would also need a few things from that tray.  
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"Come with me tomorrow night. Let Stan and Ander keep watch. Come on, Frank..." Chani elbowed Franklin in the ribs. "Ronny's is the best pub there is around here. You need to relax a little."  
  
Franklin puckered his lips in thought. He was a bit at the point of supporting his last few nerves. Perhaps... He stopped dead in his tracks as they rounded the corner. Eyes wide in absolute amazement and horror, he took a moment to find his voice. "What the hell is going on here?" It came out low and husky.  
  
There lay Ander, sprawled on the floor, flat on his face. A needle stuck out of his shoulder very near to his neck, saluting erectly at Franklin from its post. Next to him, the door to the prisoner's room sat wide open. Finally able to move his feet, which had suddenly become like cast iron weights, Franklin made his way to the door. His fear was confirmed when he saw the empty bed. Cigarette, he thought. I need a cigarette.  
  
"Was somebody in here, boss?" Chani queried as he followed Franklin into the room. Franklin bent over the cot as if examining it.  
  
"No. Looks like Martinez has pulled a Houdini on us. Cut the straps somehow." Franklin's voice would have sounded casual had it not been laced with unease. He straightened and looked and Chani. "He can't have gotten far, knowing the condition he's in. Search the place. Be careful though; he's a scientist and he's armed." The last statement was said with sarcasm and a sneer. He and Chani exited the room, stepped over the unconscious Ander, and split up, going separate ways down the corridor.   
  
The search lasted all of three minutes. As Franklin backed out of a closet, Chani ambled up to him with an expression of disappointment on his face that looked like he'd just been told a really bad joke. "He's in your office, Frank." He stated flatly. Franklin's eyebrows lowered but his eyes widened.  
  
"My office-" He darted past Chani and down the hall, rounding the corners in an almost animated fashion. "The computer!" Chani was calling after him to calm down; nothing was touched. As Franklin came into the small room, he was about to retort that Martinez could have contacted someone from there, but he came to a screeching halt, looking about curiously. There was Martinez, the little pitiful fox, propped up against the wall in a state of half-consciousness. It looked as though he'd come in, made it about two or three steps inside the door, then collapsed to the floor and gave up, scooting up to the wall or something. His face was flushed, and Franklin could hear him breathing shallowly and strenuously. Franklin came and crouched in front of him, looking into glassy eyes that looked like they were coated with water. The kid managed to look up at him with an irrated glance that also spoke of disappointment and frustration.  
  
"What do you think you're doing in here, Martinez?" He asked tauntingly. Then he stood up and went to his computer, making a show of gesturing to it. "Is this what you wanted to use?" As an afterthought, Franklin made a mental note of checking it over anyways, after Martinez was put back into his room. "So sorry. This isn't for public use. Come on, Chani. Help me get him up. I'm going to keep watch myself the next couple of days since Ander has proven himself incompetent." Chani came over, and they each grabbed up an arm.  
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The police station was buzzing with people all over the place. Criminals led around with hands cuffed behind their backs, phones ringing, files being passed around, all kinds of noise to create an almost chaotic atmosphere. A few of the wandering people recognized Josh McGrath, N-Tek's extreme sports athlete, making his way to one of the offices at the back, flanked by his handler, Rachel Leeds, and his boss, Jefferson Smith. A secretary ushered them in to a large office with windows that let in the bright sunlight.  
  
"Glad you could make it, folks." Said the large Asian woman who sat behind the desk. "I'm Chief Ming. And this is our Dr. Martinez's family. Anani Martinez, Jefferson Smith, your son's employer." Josh turned to see an elderly Spanish woman, lovely even through her obvious years. Her ebony colored hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore simple but nice looking clothes that fit a frame witch belied her age.  
  
"Si. We know each other. And Mr. Smith is aware that my mother does not speak English." One of three younger women spoke from behind Mrs. Martinez as the small woman took Smith's hand with a sad smile of recognition. The younger lady was quite taller than her mother, as were her sisters, and all of them were stunning beauties. Each of them seemed to have their own look, and yet they were all somehow the same... perhaps it was their build and facial features that were remarkably alike. One had wild, unruly black curls that swept down her back, and she wore a lot of make-up. Another had a sleek bob cut and a very formal looking outfit, business attire. The youngest looking one looked a lot like a West Side Story Natalie Wood type: very clean cut and simple looking. The one who had spoken was the one with the short hair and suit. She introduced herself to Josh and Rachel. "I am Ena, Berto's sister. This is Carmen and Isabelle." She gestured first to the one in make up, and then the younger one. "Our other sister is away on business, I'm afraid, but she will be returning within a couple of days."  
  
Formalities and introductions were finally established, and then Josh, haggard and weary from his restless night before, willed himself to make it through Chief Ming's questioning. Was Berto involved with anyone prior to the kidnapping, did he have any evident enemies, was he starting some kind of project that might have provoked curiosity or resentment from anyone? The Martinez daughter with the long, wild mane, Carmen, had a quick and sharp tongue; she spoke a lot, interrupting and growing easily aggravated. Apparently, she was very protective of her younger brother, inclined to jump to conclusions when asked if Berto did anything like experiments that were illegal. Isabelle, whose voice Josh recognized, mostly asked worried questions as to whether there had been any leads or what not. Between the two sisters, there was more questions asked to Chief Ming than Chief Ming could ask of anyone else, and it seemed a miracle at how well the calm and composed Ena could tame her sisters and keep them from overwhelming the situation. The mother didn't say much at all, popping in only every now and again with a short answer or question, which was translated through Ena. Josh had to admire the oldest daughter. Through everything, and despite the tired look within her eyes, she remained so stable. He wondered, briefly and with hidden embarrassment, whether she had cried at some point, the way he had. He was scared for a friend; he could only imagine if it were a family member.  
  
The rest of the questioning session went by like a hazy dream. At some point, Isabelle had asked about Max and why he wasn't present. Josh couldn't even remember whether it was his dad or Rachel who mentioned something about a trip to Australia. But then Isabelle leaned toward him with a bitter frown.  
  
"Berto always says such great things about him; if he's such a good friend, why isn't he here?" There was a teary note in her voice, laced with disappointment, and it struck a cord in Josh's heart. If only he could tell her that Max was there, that he was the friend Berto claimed him to be... Josh stopped himself. What kind of friend let a person they really cared about get snatched from right under their nose?  
  
"Josh, are you all right?" His dad was touching his arm, speaking softly.  
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Hands in his pockets, Danny Pitts walked into the smoky bar, completely unnoticed by anyone, and that was how he liked it. To be a ghost was the preferred identity, especially when one was a double agent. Danny slid onto an empty bar stool and ordered a drink, assuming a casual position with his chin resting in one hand. The relaxed pose, really, was no show. After eight hours of computer hacking and driving, Danny Pitts was ready to take it easy a bit. He scooted a stray bowl of beer nuts toward himself and began to munch at them absently.  
  
The guy on his left was humming softly to himself. Perhaps he had already had a few. Glancing over, Danny could see that his eyes were half way closed, and he stared sadly off into space... Heartbreak? Two seats to Danny's right found a guy talking animatedly to whoever was on the other side of him. He gestured openly and grinned widely despite his dark visage. Must be gay, Danny thought. At least the stupid haircut looked gay. Danny ignored the insufferable character and concentrated on organizing his thoughts.  
  
Finnish. Frank Finnish couldn't have just run off. He had to be lurking around somewhere, probably under an alias. Danny had to give the guy a little credit; he was pretty fast... especially for a guy who was darting around a mere two cities from where he'd run from. Perhaps Danny would catch up to Finnish here. He had to shake his head. This Finnish guy was obviously just trying to get something out of working for Dread, and not just pay. Danny could tell from the first time he had met him that Frank had some kind of bigger plan in mind, one of those guys that had really big dreams and desires. But he was a fool for simply skipping out on Dread the way he had. Didn't Finnish have any patience?  
  
Danny had been sticking it out with Dread for the past year and a half, trying to make his way up in the line, kissing up to anyone and everything until he thought he'd puke, and then he'd kiss up all the more. He hadn't gotten close enough to catch the old man, but he was hanging in there. God knew he was so close, close enough to taste Dread's very presence. This mission had to be the flag he would finally put on his sand castle of conquest. Then John Dread would be history. Once he brought in Frank Finnish, things would be a whole heck of a lot easier.  
  
A high pitch beeping caught his ear. The homo two seats down had a pager and was frowning down at whatever message it was displaying. "Well, I have to call the boss man!" He said loudly to his companion then excused himself from the bar to go use the payphone. An absent glance out of mild curiosity showed the phone to be near the restrooms, and Danny suddenly realized he needed to use the facilities. He turned to finish his drink, though, so no one would take it while he was away. The guy on his left was now incorporating words into his incoherent warbling, and Danny thought he might have recognized the tune from somewhere.  
  
Finally, he made his way over to the restrooms, finding a small line he had to wait in. So he stood there, looking invisible, not really noticing anyone or anything until the loud guy talking on the phone said the name, Frank. Cocking his head to the side, Danny found himself listening curiously. What were the odds... ? "What do you need me tonight for?" The guy was asking on the phone. "Is our little friend giving you trouble again? I told you, you should let me handle him... a store run?! But I... fine, all right. What do you need this time... okay... what else, some Camels? Marlborough? ...Okay. Just give me a half hour. I'm almost done here... okay, Frank, see you then." He hung up, and Danny suddenly didn't have to go anymore. The cigarettes had clinched it; he hadn't even made a cast, and now he had a bite.  
  
  
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Yeah! You see it all coming together? Hee hee hee, I'm really excited now. Don't forget to review on your way out. Love to all!  



	10. ch10

Wow! Sure took me long enough eh? Well, I have had a very hectic summer, but now I'm back at college and I spend a lot of time on the computer, so Caballero can finally get finnished, thought a little slower than I planned. Anyhoo... at least I can say that I'm doing something for the Max Steel forum. This place is so dead lately! Nobody's writing the Steel fics! Whaaaa!  
Anyway....  
  
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ON WITH THE STORY!!!!!!!!!  
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"I should have shown up as Max, Dad. She practically called me traitorous." Josh pulled his fingers through his hair with a distraught look as Jefferson pulled the car into N-Tek's parking lot. "He's probably told them more about Max Steel than Josh McGrath." Josh realized he couldn't bring himself to say his friend's name... almost like he was dead or something. He squeezed his eyes shut at the prospect. NO. Not dead. Not gone. Not-  
  
Jefferson's cellular phone suddenly trilled, and the man put it to his ear as he pulled into his spot. "Yes." He was silent for a moment, and then his face blanched. "I'm coming in right now." He barely pulled the keys out of the ignition before nearly flinging himself from the car. Josh followed with a look of fear.  
  
"Dad, what?"  
  
"There's an SOS at the message center. It's from Berto."  
  
The words made the insides of Josh's stomach churn as his legs suddenly went numb and he slowed to a stop. "What?" He asked, breathless.  
  
His father turned his head over his shoulder as he jogged ahead toward the building. "They've tracked the message," he shouted. "He's right here in the city somewhere."  
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He stayed within the shadows, silently cheering himself for his luck. Finally... he'd finally caught up to that little weasel. And the shmuck was just hanging out in the underground floor of a museum that closed down maybe only a few years ago. The Renaissance. At first he'd been confused, following the guy from the bar, when the dark headed loud mouth drove up to the place. But then he'd pulled into the side of the building and went around back, and then Danny saw the "closed down" sign, he understood perfectly.  
  
Pressed against the wall, Danny inched down the hallway, ears sharp for any sounds of movement. Earlier he'd even managed to catch a glimpse of Mr. Frank through a cracked door. Jack pot. Now to just find out what was going on and how to close him down. Danny had always been pretty good at espionage, if he didn't say so himself. His only problem at the moment would be where to go if he DID hear someone coming. Oh... here were plenty of doors to choose from. Goody. Only question now was who else was working for Finnish and were any of them behind these doors? One way to find out.  
  
Danny pressed his ear to the first door he came to. Nothing. Anyway, he had a gun. With a silencer. Slowly, he reached out and turned the knob, and slowly, he inched the door further and further inward. A quick search showed the room to be empty. Well... not quite empty. Just empty of potential enemies. It had a linoleum floor, fireplace, and a counter on one side, with a big sink, maybe once was a kitchen or something. Now it was occupied with a couple of tables, one of them the display for a pile of machinery and what looked like dentist utensils or something. The other table, or platform rather, was equipped with wheels, grinds and ropes. It looked like something they might have taken from the museum upstairs, a stretch rack or something. There was a stand by the fireplace, next to a bucket, with a poker and sweeper and dustpan. What was going on in here? Shop class? A couple of chains were hanging from the ceiling, and Danny saw that they had shackles connected to their ends. For crying out loud... this was a torture room! What the hell was Finnish up to?  
  
Danny snuck out and went to the room across the hall. Empty. Crossing again, he expected - but hoped not - to find the room next to the "T" chamber also filled with ugly devises he wouldn't want to see. He almost wasn't surprised, however, to find the poor victim of those instruments. Was that bed stolen from a hospital? There was a young man on the bed. Danny shivered a bit as he cautiously moved closer. The room was cold. Moving around to keep an eye on the door, Danny then peered down, finding the young man to be a black-haired youth, potentially good looking if he weren't so sickly looking, pasty and white. He almost thought the kid was dead at first, but he could practically feel the heat radiating from him, and he was trembling ever so slightly. Damn... Danny didn't usually let emotions play a big role in his job, especially considering he was working hard at being one of the bad guys, but the poor guy looked so pathetic and pitiful, Danny couldn't help feeling pretty bad for him.  
  
The youth was tied at the wrists and ankles, and one of the wrist straps were wrapped around with duct tape. He was dressed in a tee shirt and pajama or hospital pants, both damp with sweat; it looked like there had been a blanket, long since having been wriggled out of, and it hung off the edge of the bed now. Man... Danny cringed. This was really going to complicate things; he couldn't just leave him there. He reached out and lightly tapped the clammy forehead with his fingertips. Shit, he was really burning up.  
  
"Psst. Hey kid." He whispered. "Are you awake? Kid?" Danny pulled away a bit when the young man stirred, and a hitched breath went through his nose. "Shhh. Hey Kid. Come on, wake up." Finally, after a bit of prodding, two black eyes looked up at him, albeit a bit unfocused, wary and glimmering with old, unshed tears. "Say... can you hear me, kid? Say something." The shining eyes narrowed rebelliously. He didn't realize. Danny reached out and started unlatching the straps. "Don't worry; I'm going to get you out of here, okay? If you can say something, tell me how many there are around here."  
  
The kid stiffened for a moment, an expression of discomfort flickering across his face, and he closed his eyes for a second. He began to work his mouth a little, and Danny could hear his breaths, shallow and wheezing. After a moment or two, when Danny was almost done with the restraints, he finally choked out in a raspy whisper, "Who are you?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, I used play on the same team as our friend, Frank, until he bailed out, but trust me," Danny stole a glance toward the door, "I'm the good guy. I'm going to make sure you get home, okay? Safe and sound. But you gotta tell me how many there are."  
  
Another long pause. "Four... three."  
  
Danny picked up the blanket from where it fell on the floor. "What? Four or three? Which is it?"  
  
"Three now." The kid was struggling now to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head.  
  
Holding the blanket, Danny looked at the young man. Seeing no immediate injury but a few nasty bruises and whatever he might be doped up on, he asked sardonically, "I don't suppose you can walk, can you?"  
  
The kid gave a frustrated grimace, even managed to look a little shamed, and then gave a weak shake of the head. Danny sighed. "Didn't think so. All right." He draped the blanket over his new acquaintance, and then tried to reach beneath him to pick him up, but the kid let out a ragged gasp and went rigid, jerking away. Danny jumped back, hands up, and waited for him to calm down and quiet his high-pitched gasps. Jesus, thought Danny. What did they do? Stepping back up, and still keeping an eye on the door, he very carefully inspected the damage, finding severe burns and abrasions, ribs cracked or broken, who knew what else. Arms and legs still seemed to be in tact.   
  
"Sorry 'bout that, kid. The wheels were taken off this thing. I'm going to have to pick you up, okay? What's your name?" As Danny gently and slowly lifted him up, trying to ignore the young man's shaking, he watched the kid unclench his eyelids to look at him, unsure but knowing he had no say in the matter. So the kid croaked out his name, starting to fade back into unconsciousness.  
  
"Berto? Nice to meet you. You can call me Danny."  
  
Just before the said Berto was completely out, he said something else. One word, and Danny could just barely make out, thinking at first that he'd said "owch." But the 'O' was more rounded.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Berto said it again, as Danny moved toward the door, softer this time, barely a breath, but the word was clear, and it succeeded in utterly confusing Danny. It made absolutely no sense. "Roach?"  



End file.
